Put the Cart Back. I Am Not Joking.

Put the Cart Back

I have been in recovery for a long time. I have done the work. I sat in the rooms, read the literature, called my sponsor at inconvenient hours, and made amends to people who probably didn’t deserve them. I have genuinely tried to become a person who extends grace to others.

But I swear to everything holy, if I watch one more person abandon a shopping cart in the middle of a parking lot and walk away like they just released a dove into the wild, I am going to need a whole new sponsor.

This is not a small thing. This is a character issue. I said what I said.

Let Me Set the Scene

It is a Tuesday. I am at Meijer.

I have already survived the self-checkout machine telling me there is an unexpected item in the bagging area for the fourth consecutive time when I have placed nothing in the bagging area. I smiled with a cart that had one wheel that only spins sideways. I have located my debit card at the bottom of my purse beneath three lip balms, a receipt from 2023, and what I believe is a petrified Werther’s Original.

I have done all of this. I am tired. I deserve a parking lot that does not look like a demolition derby staging area.

And yet, there it is.

A cart. Just sitting there in the middle of the lane. Pointed at my driver’s side door with the quiet confidence of a heat-seeking missile. No one near it. No explanation. Just a cart, abandoned, living its worst life, waiting to personally ruin mine.

Somewhere in that parking lot, the person responsible is loading their trunk without a single thought in their head. Not one. Just vibes and no accountability, walking freely among us.

I need to talk about the different categories of cart abandoners because they are not all the same level of offense, and I believe in specificity.

The Nudger

This person pushes the cart approximately four inches off to the side and considers the matter closed. They have technically moved the cart. They feel good about this.

The cart is still absolutely in the way and will absolutely roll directly into someone’s Kia Soul the moment a light breeze comes through, but sure. Great job. Gold star. You nudged it.

The Almost-Made-It

This person pushes the cart to the little cart return area, gets within three feet of it, and then just… lets go.

Three feet. The length of a golden retriever.

You were right there. You could see it. You looked it in the eye and chose chaos anyway. I think about this person a lot. I think about them at night.

The Defender

This person has a reason. They always have a reason.

“I had my kids with me.”

Cool. I once saw a woman return a cart while holding an infant, a sippy cup, and what appeared to be a rotisserie chicken, so let’s not.

“It was raining.”

It was a light drizzle, Gerald. You are not going to dissolve.

“The cart return was far away.”

It was eleven steps. I counted. From my car. While seething.

The Abandoner Who Makes Eye Contact

This is the apex predator.

This person looks directly at you while not returning the cart and continues not returning the cart. No shame. No acknowledgment. Nothing. Just pure, weaponized indifference.

This person is not lost. This person has made a choice, they know you know, and they do not care.

I respect the audacity in the same way I respect a tornado: from a distance, with fear.

Here Is What I Actually Think Is Happening

I have heard the arguments. I have entertained them with more generosity than they deserve.

“It creates jobs.”

No. Parking lot attendants have jobs because stores employ them to manage cart flow, not to play a never-ending game of automotive Frogger collecting carts you launched into traffic. That is not a job. That is a consequence of what you created and assigned to a stranger.

“The cart pushers don’t mind.”

How do you know that? Have you asked them? Have you ever in your life had a conversation with someone retrieving carts in Michigan in January at seven in the morning? Because I have, and I promise you they have opinions about this.

“It’s not a big deal.”

It is not individually a catastrophic act. I agree.

But you know what else wasn’t individually a big deal? Every single decision I made in my twenties. And look at how that added up.

The cart return is a perfect, consequence-free test of who someone is when no one is making them do anything. There is no law. No fine. No one is going to stop you.

The cart return is entirely voluntary.

It is a choice you make for no reason except that it is the right thing to do and someone else will have to deal with it if you don’t.

That’s it. That is the whole thing.

And some people, when given a completely voluntary opportunity to do the right thing at minimal personal cost, think: No, I’m good.

And then they walk away.

I just think you should know that we see you. I see you. I am the woman sitting in the Hyundai two spots over, eating gas station trail mix and making silent judgments that I will carry into eternity.

Not because someone is watching. Not because you’ll get in trouble. Not because I’m asking nicely, but because at this point I am not asking nicely.

Put it back because you live in a society, and the society has cart returns, and they are right there, and it takes eleven seconds, and you are not so important, so busy, or so burdened that you cannot walk eleven steps and do one small thing.

Put it back.

I am begging you.

I am also not begging you.

I am telling you.

Put the damn cart back.

Jen Marie is a writer, author, and recovering person who has strong feelings about parking lots, self-checkout machines, and the general collapse of civilization. She can be found on TikTok at @Sheet_Cake, yelling into the void with love.